


Chitty Chitty Bentley

by idanit



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1960s are mentioned, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang - Freeform, Do It With Style Mini Bang (Good Omens), Female Pronouns for Crowley, Male pronouns for Aziraphale, Mixed pronouns for Crowley, Other, Picnics, Pining, Pre-Apocalypse, Songs, South Downs, The Bentley - Freeform, The Dowling years, descriptions of wind, desperate attempts at not uttering a single word of any importance, quote: you go too fast for me Crowley, we move from fluff’n’fun to melancholy as if doing 90 miles an hour through Central London, we use Nanny and Brother Francis as their names throughout the fic because they method act
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idanit/pseuds/idanit
Summary: Nanny Ashtoreth has a car. Warlock is delighted.Or: a bittersweet story in which a lonely five-year-old gets obsessed with a movie from the sixties and convinces his godparents to go for a picnic.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth & Brother Francis & Warlock Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 67
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	Chitty Chitty Bentley

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started by me googling "mary poppins car" out of curiosity, then evolved and evolved like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering new ideas and support from new people. I'd like to thank my lovely artist [lynlethe](https://lynlethe.com/) who took my half-baked draft and skilfully merged the worlds of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Good Omens into **[a wonderful video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XY5Zv5lH_wg)** that, I feel, makes the world of this story ring more true. Be sure to check it out, this is a collaborative project!
> 
> I'd also like to thank my two betas Tarek and elf_on_the_shelf for the help, the mods of the Do It With Style Events for creating a space that is both feral and supportive in the form of the discord server, and all the people of Youtube who enjoy vintage cars and without whom this fic would be about three sentences shorter. I've never written anything in a bang before, but I had a really good time.

Tick-tock.

It’s eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning and Nanny Ashtoreth is teaching Warlock about the sin of sloth. They’re huddled under a pile of blankets in the living room: Warlock leaving cracker crumbs all over the sofa, Nanny drifting in and out of a nap with her eyes closed behind the glasses. Warlock is still in his pajamas. A positively devilish start of the day, in Nanny’s opinion, top marks all around.

Tick-tock. The sound of the TV is almost drowning out the grandfather’s clock on the other side of the room, but for some reason the ticking never completely slips Nanny’s attention.

She expected a children’s channel when she turned on one of the huge screens of the house a few days ago. The Dowlings’ cable package doesn’t include any children’s channels per se, since children’s time is better spent watching material that is educational rather than entertaining if they have to watch anything at all. Nanny’s expectations can, however, be quite persuasive to animate and inanimate matter alike, so the television fumbled around her mind for a bit, trying to determine how to best please her, and came up with something. That it was “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” was an accident.

Warlock’s newfound obsession was also an accident.

It has been raining for three days straight and Warlock is currently watching it for the third time. Nanny’s thoughts wander; she had the songs drilled into her mind before, but now she could probably sing them in her sleep, if she didn’t already. She opens her eyes to draw back a curtain from behind the armrest and is pleased to discover that the clouds have thinned a bit and the grass is losing its damp shine in playful gusts of wind. They—she and Brother Francis, that is—have agreed to divide the time Warlock spends inside and outside as evenly as possible, so some playtime in the garden is rather overdue at this point. She’s looking forward to it. Not that she’s bored by sloth, of course, or that she keeps Warlock company when he’s in the garden, it’s just that raising the boy is so much more interesting when she has to do a bit of spiritual fencing with Brother Francis’s virtuous influence.

And Warlock has a lot of free time to divide. His parents usually see him at meals (if they happen to be home), on vacation (if they are lucky to synchronise their days off work with one another), and sometimes when they are feeling maudlin and want to give him a present and _bond with their child_. If there is a dentist’s appointment or a visit of a relative coming up, they talk to Nanny. They talk to, or rather at, Nanny a lot: about the best ways for Warlock to reach fluency in Spanish before age nine and new exercise routines they’ve heard about, mostly, and Nanny nods and smiles, yes, of course.

Privately, she thinks free time to be much like free will—it’s nice to have it. She and Brother Francis are able to do some great work with Warlock’s free time. But since Mrs Dowling is much more interested in Warlock as one of her projects than as the little human being he is, it doesn’t make sense for her to be disappointed when her child adorns the hall walls with long, expressive lines of wax crayon after Nanny told him a bit about colour theory. It’s not like his mother provides him with a more exciting venue for self-expression, and Nanny does so loathe all those blandly furnished rooms, all fashion and no taste. Mrs Dowling told Warlock to go to bed without dinner that day, so Nanny smuggled him over to Brother Francis’s little house for some pastries. There were always pastries in Brother Francis’s little house.

Warlock is flushed with excitement, his eyes glued to the screen as Chitty Chitty starts to lift off the ground. He’s never looked less like an Antichrist, but that’s the point, isn’t it, the protective shields around the fire alarm, don’t break before use.

He looks perfectly happy and Nanny thinks it’s remarkable, how a good children’s film can take one’s mind off things. (Idly, she wonders if he could watch this one again and again for all eternity, and smiles. He’s five years old. Maybe he could.)

Nanny has spent a not inconsiderable amount of time for a thousands-of-years-old demon watching children’s films ever since they became a thing for this reason exactly: it was a good distraction, flashy, imaginative and unapologetic. It used to, at least, when he slouched around cinemas in 1968, which was when he first came across Chitty. He laughed at people driving into ponds. He liked the kids. The car was... alright, even though he could never be seen driving something with such a determined lack of style. There was just something enjoyable about it getting a second chance from life, even though it meant it had to leave its racing past behind. Brother Francis would like that, too—and that, well, that was just the thing. It was 1968 and he needed his mind to be taken off things and thoroughly aired. It worked then. Now it just reminds her of 1968, and 67.

Chitty is flying over the fields, making light of the monologue about keeping your feet planted firmly on the ground, and Nanny catches herself thinking that it must be nice. To just fly away from a world that seems to be set on ending. But the world of the happy couple is not ending, it’s taking a new turn, and their flight is one of fancy, not an escape, and Nanny’s just about done with this film, so it’s just as well that the film is ending, too.

“We’re going outside,” she announces when the credits start rolling.

“Has it stopped raining?” Warlock slides off the sofa into a tangle of blankets on the floor.

“It’d better have. Come on, spit-spot.”

She extends her hand. Warlock grabs it and hangs off it with the full weight of his little body until he’s upright enough to stand on his own. Not a long time ago, Nanny would have taken him up into her arms, but that’s a thing of the past now: he’s growing fast. She wonders if she will ever see him into adulthood, then shakes her head at the thought. Everything is going just fine. Tickety-boo.

She winces, and focuses on getting Warlock ready.

“Chitty chitty chitty chitty,” Warlock says, puffing out his mouth as he pulls on a T-shirt.

“Chitty chitty chitty chitty,” he tries to say as he brushes his teeth, making a mess of his T-shirt, until Nanny raises a disapproving eyebrow at him and wipes the toothpaste stains away with a miracle. He will start to notice them any day now. She wants him to ask questions, even if she won’t always be able to answer.

He slows down considerably while tying his shoes under Nanny’s proud, though safely sunglassed eyes, then resumes the song with fresh force as he runs out of the front door. He only ever makes noise outside, like a well-trained puppy. It’s certainly easier on the ears, but also rather off-putting for a child his age, so she makes a mental note to cause a scene one day or another, draw Mr Dowling’s brows down and down until he looks constipated.

Brother Francis is near the roses, bent over them in a pose that looks passably like gardening from a distance, but is more likely a harvest of petals; they make good potpourri. Nanny throws the flowers a stern look and they perk up slightly. So does Brother Francis: his smile is almost blinding. The roses should chase it like sunlight if they know what’s good for them.

“Hello, Warlock, hello, Nanny. How was your morning?”

“Smashing!” Warlock is buzzing with the energy of being outside at last, his hair already all over the place when he releases Brother Francis’s knees from a sudden hug. “We watched a movie.”

“A movie! What was it about?” Brother Francis leans on a rake like some character from a picture book, doing something with his bushy brows that could only be described as a wiggle. His ridiculous getup and equally ridiculous expression of genuine, but exaggerated interest makes Nanny feel something fond and silly turn inside her, once, twice, ba-doom. She should go, leave them to it. It’s Brother Francis’s turn. It wouldn’t do to step on one another’s toes. 

“A magical car! It was broken, but then Mister Caracactus fixed it. And the children met a lady in a lake. And they went to a sweets factory. And then they went on a picnic, but pirates started chasing them, and then they flew to a castle and they had to run from the Baron and they pretended to be toys, but the children got caught by a bad man, but they escaped!” Warlock draws a breath. “And the car was alright. And they kissed and got married and went flying again.”

“Oh my. Sounds like quite an adventure.” Brother Francis, who has never quite gotten into _motion pictures_ , throws Nanny a slightly lost look before addressing Warlock again. “Would you like to go see how your saplings are doing after the downpour?”

That would be her cue. Nanny pats Warlock’s shoulder as a goodbye and turns to go back to the house, but Warlock frowns and manages to grab her skirt before she could take a step. “Nanny?”

“Yes, hellspawn dear?”

“Do you have a car? Or you,” he adds as an afterthought, looking back to Brother Francis.

The hedge rustles in a soft breeze. Nanny feels her face coming down with a smile, and then there it is, all teeth all at once. Brother Francis’s eyes go wide.

“Don’t you get any ideas, Nanny Ashtoreth,” he starts to say with great urgency. “I’m serious. I am not letting Warlock within five meters of–”

Nanny crouches down to look Warlock in the eye.

“I do have a car. Do you want a ride?”

“Yes!” Warlock shrieks and jumps, clutching at her skirt.

“No!” Brother Francis tries to restrain Warlock’s frantic bouncing, but he frees himself to hide behind Nanny, then starts to circle her as if in some kind of a ritual dance.

“Car ride! Car ride!”

“No, Warlock, you really don’t want that.” Brother Francis throws Nanny a look that wanted to go to stern, but arrives at pleading. “She drives like hell.”

“I do.” Nanny flashes her teeth again. “It’s glorious.”

“Don’t listen to her, Warlock.”

“But–”

“Hey, that’s a violation of our–”

“You listen to me, Nanny.” Brother Francis’s voice drops almost to a whisper and takes on an unpleasantly chilly edge as he tries to move them away from the ecstatic jumping. “We are not getting fired over harming an innocent child. Or the Antichrist. Especially the Antichrist, actually. It’s just an unnecessary risk, what if you discorporate him, or, or what if he does something… inhuman to save himself and we kickstart the whole thing?”

Now, really. Who does he think she is?

“You think I can’t go safe and slow. You think I’m here to discorporate little antichrists,” Nanny deadpans, looking him in the eye. Warlock catches up with them and tugs at Brother Francis’s shirt.

“Why can’t I go, Brother Francis! Come onnn–”

“You know that’s not my point at all.” 

“What _is_ your point, then?”

Brother Francis looks shifty, and Nanny can practically see him scrambling for something else to add weight to his argument, which only irritates her further. “Well, there’s… there are those demonic motorways of yours. This is not an appropriate environment for,” he lowers his voice, “the son of Satan.”

“There’s only one! We don’t have to go anywhere near it if you’re so worried.”

Brother Francis hesitates. “Nanny... I’ve been subjected to your driving. Surely you will forgive me for not trusting it.”

That gives Nanny a pang of something she dismisses too quickly to name. Oh, this is decided now, she is going to drive Warlock wherever he pleases and return him home with not so much as a hair out of place, or—maybe not that. But something. Without a scratch, and a sense that he was refused an adventure he could easily have had while he’s still as human as he can be and has people who care about him enough to have it with him.

She takes a breath and changes gears.

“Well, then you just have to come with. Keep an eye out. Country roads only,” she says, carefully neutral, and that’s a hand extended: here’s your excuse, if you want it. She grabs Warlock’s hand as reinforcement. 

Two against one, and Warlock’s eyes are _shining_. He still has Brother Francis’s shirt crumpled in his palm.

“Can we? Can we all go?” he asks and goes very quiet. 

Brother Francis makes an unhappy face and looks further into the garden, then at his rake, then at Warlock, bright-eyed, and finally, at the thin, milky clouds, which he seems to contemplate with great reluctance.

“Let him see it, at least,” Nanny says, already knowing they’ve won.

“What have you done with him these past few days?” Brother Francis mutters.

Nanny shrugs. “Television. Not one of mine.” Not initially.

“Hm.” He clears his throat; Nanny thinks she can hear the clock chiming back in the house, but maybe it’s only London. The city is very close, just a few hundred yards over, but you’d never know if it wasn’t for the occasional sound, here, among the sprawling green lawns. “Your vocabulary seems to have broadened, dear Warlock, so I suppose it can’t be all bad. I can’t wait until you’re ready to read proper books.” Brother Francis allows himself a smile with a side of wink, then sighs and leaves the rake leaning against the rose bush. “Alright. Let’s go see the car.”

  


* * *

  


The car stands parked on a gravel side road not far from the gate of the Dowling residence, reflective like Nanny’s glasses and black like her clothes. She waves her hand in a vague suggestion of using car keys and Brother Francis feels the lifting of a minor curse. 

Warlock was shuffling his feet and kicking up dirt into the air as they walked, but he slowed down considerably when he rounded the corner, only to finally stop a few metres behind them in the reluctant manner of someone confronted with a dream come true faster than he thought possible. When Brother Francis looks back at him, his face is scrunched up in bewilderment.

“This one’s yours?” he asks, although the sight rather speaks for itself. Brother Francis finds it difficult to imagine what it must be like to look at it and not immediately recognize the owner. Maybe it’s a question of the pinching-your-arm sort, just to make sure.

Nanny puts her hands on her hips and seems to agree. “Obviously. What do you think?”

“It has crazy big fenders,” Warlock says in a small voice. That seems to be important for some reason. “Can I–?” He looks back at Nanny with a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead.”

He wastes no more time and walks up to the car to gently touch, then pat the painted chrome like it’s an easily-spooked animal. He’s probably never seen a car older than himself before in his life. Brother Francis regards him with fondness as he begins a slow, methodical inspection along one of the sides, grabbing the silver door handles and rubbing his fingers on the tires, quietly awestruck. It’s only been a few days since Brother Francis last saw him and it’s not like him, historically speaking, to get quite this attached to humans, but he has missed Warlock, their walks, their talks, his astute comments, this: the childlike wonder. If his levels of affection for this particular boy should worry him, then he doesn’t do a very good job of it. He worries about Warlock’s future instead—usually not even consciously; it’s like a speck of dust in the back of his mind that tickles sometimes if his thoughts move in a particular way.

He scratches his head. Beside him, Nanny radiates smug self-satisfaction while studiously avoiding his eyes, which is, frankly, a bit irritating. She doesn’t need to play the game. Brother Francis has already agreed to keep them company, if not in so many words, but one doesn’t need words after so many years, do they. She knows him, she knows what he means when he doesn’t state it outright.

All the same, it’s nice to see her. He knows she hates getting wet, makes her hair all damp and unhappy.

Warlock splays his fingers on one of the headlights, two or three times as big as his hand, then looks at them, his face slowly elongating with some new terrible idea. Brother Francis looks away in order not to hear it.

“You’re going to behave yourself,” he says in the approximate direction of his shoulder.

“Needs must when the devil drives,” says Nanny lightly, a reassurance or a rebuff, Satan only knows.

“Can we go for a picnic?” Warlock asks.

Somebody honks in the distance, a single noise emerging from the constant background hum of other people going about their day, living their lives. Here, at the edges of the park, the three of them are almost alone, though. A woman walking her dog passes by, but takes no notice of them.

“Like in the movie,” Warlock clarifies unhelpfully. 

Brother Francis takes his turn in avoiding Nanny’s eyes and listens to the trees and the city instead of her breaths or answers. Warlocks looks between the two of them, confused.

“Please?”

That was a great recent success, getting him to say his pleases and thank yous.

Nanny doesn’t move a muscle and Brother Francis suddenly gets the impression that she isn’t breathing either, unmoving like her eyes that weren’t designed to blink, which is how he realizes she isn’t going to reply at all. He clears his throat.

This is not what he had in mind for today, even after agreeing to Warlock’s pleas. He doesn’t regret that yet, although he wonders if maybe he should get a headstart. This… in fact, this was not supposed to happen much later, if things go well, the kind of later that one safely compartmentalises and files under “one day”. Then again, _this_ is not what they’re talking about here, is it? This—the idea at hand—doesn’t have to be _this_ , it doesn’t have to be significant at all. Warlock is thinking of some picnic he saw on television that Brother Francis doesn’t know the first thing about and that’s what it could—should—is going to be. He and Nanny Ashtoreth weren’t even adults in the 1960s. The sixties are neither here nor there right now, really, so—Brother Francis clears his throat again, and says:

“I… suppose we could?”, quieter with every word, his eyes hanging somewhere around the nearest lamppost.

Nanny understands all of this, surely.

“Right,” she says on his left, curiously out of breath. “Of course.”

“Are you okay?” Warlock seems suddenly unsure and Brother Francis feels vaguely guilty for making him uneasy about his wishes. He manages to finally look over at Nanny. She stands where she was with her purpled lips slightly open and an otherwise blank expression, but the moment his eyes land on her, she gathers herself and sends Warlock a smile. By the time Warlock runs back to them and grabs her hand, she’s fully back as well, and the tension pops like a balloon.

“Have you ever had a picnic?” she asks. Warlock eyes her thoughtfully for a moment longer, but doesn’t press. 

“Mm-mm. Well, Brother Francis makes us sandwiches sometimes when we prune.”

“You _prune_?” Nanny’s eyebrows shoot above the rim of her sunglasses.

“It serves as an excellent metaphor for being aware of one’s faults, choosing which parts of yourself you want to nurture, and striving for constant improvement of one’s soul.”

“With your hands?”

”I do great many things manually, as you’re well aware”, Brother Francis replies, which shuts her up for a flicker of a moment.

“What’s a metaphor?” Warlock asks.

“It’s when you avoid saying what you mean and hope someone is invested enough to decipher your message,” Nanny says.

Brother Francis splutters. “Excuse me, I will let you know that without metaphors and symbols, literature–”

“Let’s not get sidetracked,” says Nanny like a skilled hypocrite she is. ”Are you a gardener or a librarian?”

A librarian! Brother Francis huffs in annoyance. “Now this is completely uncalled for, you, you hypocritical nanny.”

“What’s hypocritical?” Warlock asks.

“It’s when you say one thing and do something completely different, dear.” 

“I _am_ a nanny. And we were going to have a picnic, weren’t we? Better get started. It’s much more than a sandwich or two, Warlock. We have to plan. We have to prepare.”

She starts to walk away, pulling Warlock along with her, then falters when she realizes he has grabbed Brother Francis’s hand too at some point. Brother Francis falters along, seeing as he’s been too wrapped up in the whiplash of… whatever this whole conversation was to realize he’s being pulled by Warlock. He crosses his line of sight with that of Nanny’s somewhere in the air, which surely counts as exchanging a look. They walk back to the main gate of the Dowlings grounds hand in hand in hand, with Warlock swinging himself on their arms, lifting his feet in the air and laughing giddily as if at some private joke of his. They share the weight between them, and must make quite a sight, if anyone were to look. Nothing is said. Brother Francis hopes it’s companionable.

  


* * *

  


“It’s different, you know.”

Brother Francis is inclined to agree.

He helps Warlock climb into his lap in the passenger seat of the car. The initial amazement has apparently passed and Warlock inspects the interior with a critical eye, then sets out to fiddle with the controls and pick at the bullet hole sticker on the partially-rolled-down window.

“What is?” Nanny peers at them from the outside, holding the mysterious basket she forbade Brother Francis to open, before moving towards the boot to pack it.

“The car, different from Chitty.” Warlock twists around to look at her. “But it suits you.”

“I know.” Nanny pats the roof a few times, pleased, then walks back to the front door and gets inside, shutting it behind her. Brother Francis does his best not to let the sounds rattle on his nerves. “The Bentley’s perfect.”

“It has a name too?”

“It’s a brand, technically, but yes.” Nanny arranges her skirt so that it won’t be getting in the way, then takes off her hat and turns to toss it onto the backseat.

Warlock draws a long breath through his nose. “It smells like you.”

It does. The effect is even more pronounced now that they’re enclosed in the small space, surrounded by the scent of leather, oil, perfume, and, underneath it all, something spicy that is as unmistakably Nanny as the paintwork on the outside.

It does—and this has always terrified Brother Francis a little bit. Nanny has always been eager to show the Bentley off ever since he got it, so Brother Francis has sat inside many times by now, and he always ended up having to manage his heart rate. Nanny was reckless, and being so close to him in a vehicle careening around the corners, following routes Brother Francis could barely keep track of even when he knew the destination, being surrounded by his scent and his music—it was a lot, sometimes more than he could bear. Brother Francis thought Nanny enjoyed overwhelming him, getting a reaction out of him. Brother Francis didn’t. He wasn’t lying when he said that to Nanny that one night a few decades ago, after the holy water business. It was a truth, and if it landed heavy between them, it was because it was one of many truths, like a chest with a false bottom: a truth he could hide behind while still meeting his eyes. He supposes Nanny has never enjoyed his tendency to speak like that.

She puts a key, a real one this time, into the ignition, flips a switch, turns something on the wheel and pushes a button. The Bentley roars in greeting before quieting down into a low rumble. Nanny has never stopped offering him rides and, perhaps unsurprisingly, Brother Francis keeps on agreeing. Out of convenience; because the car was already there; because he couldn’t be bothered to take the bus at the rush hour; because Warlock wanted it; because, and he knows this, he enjoys Nanny’s company even when he fears for the life of the pedestrians, and his own.

Warlock cheers when they drive out onto the street and starts chattering and wiggling around, asking about displays and levers and why the fuel gauge is pointing to zero, the perceptive little boy. Brother Francis picks at his sideburns and reminds himself that Warlock is right: things are different now. Nanny’s hair is styled in lovely auburn waves—not that this is the important thing, of course—the point is that they’re a nanny and a gardner, going on an outing with a small child, and that’s all it is. Warlock is a very competent distraction from the line of his thoughts and, looking at him, Brother Francis feels a wave of gratefulness blending into fondness. Out of habit, he grips the edge of his seat and prays for the pedestrians, since praying for the Antichrist might just give both of them a headache. 

“Can Bentley fly?” Warlock asks when they arrive at their first red lights, his cheek squashed against the window.

“Hm.” Nanny frowns in contemplation. “I bet it could. It’d just take some imagina-”

“Of course not, Warlock.” Brother Francis wants to stomp on Nanny’s foot but it would probably run counter to his argument at this particular moment. “Cars don’t fly.”

“I’m not stupid. I know that,” Warlock says, but he doesn’t look convinced. Brother Francis wonders what Nanny gets up to with him when they’re alone, and if Warlock is able to separate what is possible from what is impossible (but may be begrudgingly coaxed into existence). Even if he’s going to come into his powers in a few years, it doesn’t seem wise to completely forgo teaching him about the distinction.

“...but they can go very, very fast–” Nanny continues, unfazed.

“But! They don’t, because speed limits are set for a reason.” Must Brother Francis really be the only sensible person here? “Imagine what would happen if a boy just like you, Warlock, ran out onto the road while we were going very, very fast, hm? It’s dangerous, and you can get in legal trouble, not to mention...” He trails off. There’s a glint in Nanny’s eye, he can see it under her sunglasses, and—of course she’s only messing with him. Brother Francis looks outside at the streets of London. They’re riding a green wave now, no doubt surreptitiously miracled while Brother Francis was trying to tell Warlock about road safety, but the speed is oddly respectable. It’s almost… touching.

“Running into a car isn’t so bad. As long as you don’t drive into a pond, I guess.” Warlock says resolutely. He seems to consider something. “Can Bentley swim?”

Nanny looks at him in abject horror.

“No.”

Brother Francis giggles and gives Warlock a wink. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of imagination.”

“Absolutely not.”

Warlock shares a look with him, and bursts out laughing as well.

London slides past them. The city centre gives way to the suburbs as the flow of their conversation about nothing of consequence gives way into equally comfortable silence and—it’s almost easy. Godparently, even. For once, there isn’t even any bebop playing and Brother Francis is pleased by the quiet.

“Why isn’t it more noisy?” Warlock asks after a while in a tone of complaint. “I thought old cars are loud.”

“It’s a sports car in an excellent condition, not—something assembled in a garage by a well-meaning father,” Nanny grumbles, then sends Warlock a considering look. “But if you want loud, we can certainly do that.”

She leans down and her head briefly lands in Warlock’s and Brother Francis’s lap. The snake tattoo next to her ear flashes before their eyes, vulnerable, and suddenly, the Bentley roars up, like blood in Brother Francis’s ears, stupid, silly.

“Bang!” Warlock shouts, too close and too loud. Brother Francis looks down. There’s a lever in the carpeted floor, now pushed forward, probably opening up some flap or another under the hood in front of them, and the sound of the engine isn’t muffled anymore.

“Bang! Bang!” Warlock shouts as Nanny reaches up to slide the sunroof open. Somehow, Brother Francis has never noticed that the roof opens up at all, but all at once there’s a patch of light gray sky above them. The noise only increases and a few of Nanny’s curls come undone when the rush of air hits the top of her head.

“It’s a Chitty Chitty Bentley!” Warlock laughs, elated, and then, much to Brother Francis’s confusion, breaks into a song, something light and merry. “Oh, you pretty Chitty Bentley, Chitty Chitty Bentley, we love you, and our pretty Chitty Bentley, Chitty Chitty Bentley loves us too!”

Brother Francis doesn’t know the words or the melody and feels more lost with every second. He looks over at Nanny. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he can hear her humming.

“Bentley Chitty Chitty Bentley, our fine four-fendered friend—high, low, anywhere we go on Chitty Bentley we depend! Sing with me, Nanny!” Warlock pulls on her sleeve before Brother Francis can say anything about disturbing the driver. It’s not like Warlock would hear him anyway.

“You’re sweet as a sourdough bread,” he yells at Nanny, which—can’t be right.

“Your seats are a featherbed,” Nanny sings back. She looks back at Brother Francis before reverting her eyes to the road. “You’ll turn everybody’s head today!”

He didn’t know she could sound like that, didn’t even know she sings. Something in him wants to laugh nervously—so many years, and not once did he hear her singing a song? It sounds unlikely, and yet. How many other things he doesn’t know about her? If he knew the words, would he sing along?

The familiar streets of London are already behind them. The fields and hedges sweep by, the electric poles go whoosh whoosh whoosh on the side of the road, and Nanny’s voice is climbing, climbing until Brother Francis can’t bear to look at her face, her smiling lips, throat—anymore. Is it just the wind that adds to the chaos or are they going faster now?

The Bentley doesn’t quite fly. But the tiny wings at the top of the bonnet cut the landscape into two parts, left and right, and as the towns turn more sparse and the roads more narrow, Nanny makes every bump count; the basket in the trunk clatters, the suspension smashes back to the ground with increasing reluctance. Warlock’s song slides from words into a joyful scream. He’s standing up on Brother Francis’s knees and sticking his hands through the roof into the stream of cool air with his hair flapping around all over his face. There’s a swoop in Brother Francis’s stomach, but he hasn’t decided yet if it feels like flight, or like falling.

Finally, the roar and violence lulls them into silence again, and they don’t speak or sing anymore. The weightless, gliding sensation of the ride remains. Brother Francis’s grip on the edge of the seat loosens, and he tightens his arms around Warlock instead, which grounds him a little. He doesn’t remember why he thought this trip was a bad idea. Is this dangerous? Are they really such a mismatched trio when they’re all together? He looks down at the speedometer; it’s still, unbelievably, a careful forty five miles per hour. It feels like more—it feels like it could be more, and he doesn’t mind. A tentative smile pulls at the corners of his mouth and he turns to Nanny, but she doesn’t look back, and her fingers are clasped around the steering wheel so tightly that the knuckles are completely white.

  


* * *

  


There are gingerbread biscuits, sticky sugar-covered plums, cinnamon rolls and a few kinds of cake in the basket—all still warm or cold according to the perfect temperature they should be consumed in because they know better than to disobey a demonic miracle. The blanket they lay down together is red like a warning. It looks nice on the grass.

Neither Brother Francis nor Warlock asked where they were going—Warlock probably knew, having spent quite a bit of time on the preparation stage with Nanny as Brother Francis read a copy of “Roman de la Rose” under a poplar tree with huge garden shears in one hand, should anyone come by—but Brother Francis is somehow not surprised that Nanny drove them as far south as they could go, all the way to the coast.

The hill they walked up rises in a gentle slope only to suddenly fall into the sea as if cut with something jagged. The ground is cold, but dry, and they were free to choose a spot wherever they pleased. They ended up some distance away from the path, on the sea of washed-out dark green grass, below the dome of tinny-grey sky divided by the line of no return of the cliff. Down below them, there is the Bentley, a small black spot parked next to a few white-walled houses.

Warlock collapses on the blanket as soon as it’s spread out. Brother Francis is no stranger to hunger, but he has grown to understand that the state meant something more than a vague desire for a particular kind of food for humans. He watches Nanny fill Warlock’s plate with a bit of everything.

For a while, there’s only the sound of the cutlery clinking against the porcelain, and the whisper of grass.

“You’re going to spoil him into rotten teeth,” Brother Francis says just to say something, pointing at the variety of desserts with his fork. There’s something about the spread that he didn’t want to place, so of course he placed it immediately. The apple pie looks suspiciously like the one he sometimes treats himself to in the lovely little place in Marylebone, and he would recognize the plums anywhere as well. It isn’t miracled food either, the difference in taste is always obvious. Bakeries and cafes have clearly been visited while he was deep in his book.

He can’t help the pleased noise that escapes his mouth when it’s filled with the creamy body of the lemon tart, so his remark probably doesn’t land very well.

“I’m rather aiming for the soul, and I don’t think I’m the bad teeth influence here.” Nanny pushes her piece of cake around her plate without much interest. “Anyway, you’re here. No harm done so far, hm?”

It sounds off-hand, but Brother Francis knows it isn’t. Her mood seems to shift back and forth today, as if she was anxiously fiddling with some knob: all snark and banter, then fidgety and wary again. He wonders if she regrets the whole idea of spending the day together, if she would take it back if she could.

I was never worried about you doing harm on purpose, only about taking risks, he wants to say. (And: my teeth are a thought away from being perfect, thank you very much.) 

“My teeth are strong, though,” Warlock says before Brother Francis gets the chance to open his mouth, then plunges them into a biscuit as a show of force. The sugar seems to be quickly refueling his energy reserves. “I could eat everything here with them. And then all my enemies.”

Brother Francis eyes him doubtfully and makes a face that he hopes is disapproving rather than confused. “Now, Warlock, I’m glad if you feel like your teeth are in good health, but it’s about preventing damage instead of treating it later. And, more importantly, I’m not sure where you got this idea about enemies,” he glances at Nanny’s unreadable face, “but a kind, good person shouldn’t have any enemies to speak of, or if they do, they would certainly be able to resolve any disagreements by nonviolent means. Wouldn’t that be much easier?”

Nanny puffs out a breath.

“Am I a good kind person?” Warlock asks.

“Of course you are,” Brother Francis replies without hesitation.

“What do you think?” says Nanny at the same time.

Warlock looks at Brother Francis. “How do you know?”

“I believe it.”

“Even when I do bad things like throwing your book into the mud?”

Brother Francis falters for a moment, remembering the beautiful copy of T.S. Eliot he had manually rebound three times only to have to miracle the dirt from the cover, but quickly gathers himself. “I believe you don’t mean harm.”

Warlock, who, Brother Francis supposes, is by now more used to moral dilemmas than most children his age, furrows his brow and has a good think about it. His eyes circle back to Nanny, who is staring vaguely towards the horizon.

“I haven’t met any of my enemies yet, so maybe I’m good,” Warlock says carefully around a mouthful of cake. “But what if I’m not and I’ll meet them later? And they want to do bad things to me.”

“As I said, you should try to talk to them and maybe they will change their mind about you if you treat them with respect. What do you know, you could even make friends!” He sends Warlock an enthusiastic smile. 

“Don’t listen to Brother Francis here, dear.” Nanny turns to throw him a look. “Good people get plenty of enemies, and your job is to bite them hard before they do.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“Excuse me?”

Brother Francis thinks of walls, lead balloons and taking shelter from the rain under a wing that isn’t one’s own. “Well, where are your enemies now?”

Nanny recoils at that a little, as if pricked with a needle, and doesn’t answer. Brother Francis notices out of the corner of his eye that Warlock has put his head in his palms and is looking between them with interest that is a little too knowingly amused for a child his age, and for Brother Francis’s taste. 

He starts to question the wisdom of raising a child by influencing him into opposite directions, and especially subjecting him to those contrary influences at the same time. He’s not sure he wants to know what’s going on in Warlock’s head. They must be terribly confusing to the poor boy.

“Sooo maybe I should just try really hard to be nice and make friends with them and if they don’t want to and they’re still bad, ground them under my heels and make them _really_ ” —he smashes a fist into his palm and Brother Francis imagines for a second that he can see his eyes flashing red—“pay for it.”

Or not. Maybe they don’t confuse him at all.

Warlock—he smirks, there isn’t another word for it. Nanny seems to be impressed, and something about her relaxes a notch; she actually smiles again.

“A-anyhow,” Brother Francis says, choosing not to comment and, in fact, feeling quite thrown by the multitudes human beings contain, “all, all I wanted to say was that maybe we should have eaten something more dinner-like for the main meal of the day rather than jumping straight to dessert. Although it _is_ rather scrumptious.” He tries to catch Nanny with the net of his smile, but she’s not looking at him.

“Truly scrumptious?” Warlock asks and starts laughing like a spirit possessed.

Brother Francis blinks. 

“Yes. Um… Television?” he asks in a hushed tone.

“Television,” Nanny nods gravely. “That’s what it does to people, I’m afraid.”

One of the blanket corners flops onto Warlock’s ear.

“Oh dear.” Brother Francis looks over the grass all around them, bending as if being tousled by some invisible hand. “The wind is really picking up, isn’t it.”

Nanny casts around for some plate to weigh down the unruly material, but Warlock is faster. 

“Can I go look for some stones?”

“If you’d like. Just don’t go near the edge of the cliff, please.”

Warlock walks away. They watch him find the twisting path and then slowly follow it, getting progressively smaller. His dark jacket (“sensible and stylish, unlike the gauche colours of most children’s wear nowadays,” Mrs Dowling said once) quickly blends with the scenery. When he disappears briefly behind the curve of the hill, Brother Francis feels a surge of anxiety overtake him. It’s unreasonable. Everything is perfectly fine, and yet–

“We should go after–” he tries to say, turning to Nanny only to find her already watching him.

“Sorry if–” Nanny says simultaneously. “Oh,” she adds. “Yes, of course.”

She immediately stands up, brushes off some imaginary dirt from her skirt, adjusts her hat and starts making her way up the slope in the general direction of the vanishing point of Warlock’s little figure. He seems to have forgotten about the stones and as far as Brother Francis can tell is picking some plants or flowers. Even though he looks at them from over his shoulder from time to time to check if he can still see them, it looks like he doesn’t intend to come back anytime soon. Brother Francis gets up as well, glances at the half-eaten pastries they’re leaving behind, then follows Nanny.

The wind hits him differently once he’s standing, and he almost shivers.

Nanny is walking some distance in front of him, cutting a dashing figure against the sky until the slope starts to curve downwards, surrounding her with dark greens. What was she trying to apologize for? He thinks he knows, and he doesn’t like it because it would mean she’s wrong.

It’s been lovely so far. Brother Francis hopes the picnic has lived up to Warlock’s expectations, because it has certainly surpassed, or maybe subverted his own. He didn’t expect the three of them to work together, but, despite the odds, they do: a child or the Antichrist, a nanny or a demon, a gardener or an angel. Nanny sees that, surely, surely, she would agree. Except if—maybe, despite of what she said, she expected, or, or hoped for something else.

There’s a large book on one of the shelves back in his little house on the Dowling estate, right next to Brother Francis’s desk. It’s bound in linen that had to be emerald green once upon a time, most likely in 1886, if the first page is to be believed. The inside is full of engravings of leaves, seeds, flowers and insects as well as precise descriptions of various methods that ensure a successful garden, neatly divided into four sections announced in big, stylized letters: Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. He has been consulting the book with gusto recently, not because he had to, of course, since if he so desired the garden would flourish without ever seeing a single ray of sunshine, but because it was such a pleasant challenge to pay attention to and try to follow the ways of nature. He always smiles when the cherry tree first blossoms, and when he and Warlock can eat the fruits—and when the snow falls, she shovels it off with a thought because there are the delightful challenges of cajoling the ground into sprouting and there are the challenges that make your corporation sweat and ache and provide no sense of accomplishment when it snows again the next day.

The point is, in his garden the rhythm of time is easy, reduced into convenient bits of practical information. Here, outside the city, one doesn’t get the chance to get enveloped in this kind of a false sense of security and grow complacent.

It’s autumn, Brother Francis realizes as they walk, and it looks nothing like it does when he’s tending his flowerbeds. The year turns more sharply here and one gets reminded of the sheer scale of it: it’s in the colour of the grass, the smell of the sea, the tilt of the Earth influencing the angle of the sunbeams somewhere behind the veil of clouds, the currents of air passing above them. Brother Francis could have a garden that doesn’t heed the seasons if he wanted to, but this is unavoidable and utterly out of his control. It makes him feel small. He bends slightly forward when he reaches the top of another hill and he’s hit by another howling wall of wind. It’s been a while and somewhere he doesn’t think about much these days, his wings itch to spread out but this is not a good wind—it’s the kind that wants to smash you into the water.

It’s autumn. It’s also the afternoon, and the trees in the distance take on a shade almost as black as Nanny’s clothes; light wanes sooner now. Brother Francis has never had to concern himself much with time at all, but suddenly, he feels a painful sense of urgency.

He’s been walking slowly, lost in thought, so he lenghtens his stride and finally catches up with Nanny, but then he hears Warlock, who’s singing again.

“Truly scrumptious, you two are truly scrumptious… shan’t forget… lovely day…” The roar of the wind overpowers his voice and Brother Francis can’t make out all of the words. It would probably sound cheerful in a nice, cozy room, but here, it’s everything but. “I may seem presumptuous… never, never, ever go away...”

Nanny doesn’t join in this time. “Come, Warlock! It’s getting late.”

“It isn’t,” Brother Francis says emphatically enough that Nanny looks back at him in surprise.

“Isn’t it?” she says with some annoyance, even as she gestures vaguely at the darkening sky and, of course, she’s right, in this regard. It’s not what he meant.

“I don’t want to,” Warlock shouts back. He has stopped, so they reach him at last, but he doesn’t look back at them. Something seems to be wrong. Brother Francis frowns and tries his best to squash down his own anxieties to be there for him. 

“Did you find the stones?” he asks Warlock.

“Yes,” he says, but his hands are empty. He doesn’t make the effort to explain himself further.

Nanny seems to have noticed that something’s off about the boy, too, and crouches down next to him. “Where are they?”

“I threw them over the edge.”

“Why?”

Warlock remains silent.

Nanny changes tactics. “You’ve walked quite far, do you know?” He nods, so she continues: “We have a long way back to the Bentley now and it will only get darker and colder. Aren’t you tired?”

“No.”

“Your parents will worry if we come back very late, my dear boy.” Brother Francis lays a hand on Warlock’s shoulder, but he shakes it off.

“No they won’t.”

“I’m sure they will.”

“I don’t care!” Warlock shouts, turning to meet his eyes. “You don’t get it!”

“What don’t we get, Warlock?” Nanny asks. “Try us.”

She’s still crouching beside him. Brother Francis doesn’t want Warlock to feel crowded from both sides, so he only circles around them to get a better look at his face and finds it scrunched up in resentment.

“You can tell us anything, Warlock, you know that.”

“I don’t care about my parents. You’re much better,” he mutters into his collar.

 _You can’t mean that_ is at the tip of Brother Francis’s tongue, but he has just said that Warlock can talk to them. He doesn’t want to dismiss him, especially since he’s not exactly surprised. The presence of Brother Francis’s human employers in this child’s life is erratic at best and although they must love him in their own detached way, it leaves a lot to be desired. Of course Warlock would grow more attached to people who actually spend time with and care for him. Not only is he not stupid, he’s getting more and more perceptive and maybe they haven’t been giving him enough credit for that. 

And, deep down, Brother Francis feels like he might know a thing or two about what it feels like to have absent parents even though he never really had them, as such.

“You can be angry, dear,” Nanny says while Brother Francis mulls over his reply, and—oh. If he knows a thing or two, she must know a dozen. She takes Warlock’s hand in her own, which makes him raise his eyes. They look a bit red around the edges and it doesn’t seem to be the wind. “That doesn’t explain why you walked so far away all by yourself and threw away your rocks, though.”

“I don’t want to go back.” Warlock’s tone turns accusatory, but he doesn’t try to free himself from Nanny’s hold. “When we go back it’s going to be all the same again, just me and you or just me and Brother Francis. It’s not as fun. But you never want to play with me together.”

It’s a fragile thing, the moment that comes. Warlock’s voice is strained. If they were at home, maybe Brother Francis could invite both of them to his house to have a long talk over tea, maybe he and Nanny would try to explain something, talk in circles around Warlock’s unique circumstances. But they’re here, far away from everything, and something has to be resolved now. 

“We-we never thought you wanted that,” Nanny says after a while. “You never said, Warlock. You don’t have to invent excuses for the day not to end yet.”

“What if… what if we said we will try to spend more time together from now on, all three of us? Perhaps we could go on a few more little excursions like this, if your parents agree.” As soon as the suggestion leaves Brother Francis’s mouth, he knows that it was the right thing to say, and he has Warlock’s attention.

“Like trips?”

“Exactly.”

“What if they don’t agree?”

“Especially if they don’t agree,” Nanny catches on and scoops Warlock up onto her knee. Brother Francis feels a bit lighter. She doesn’t think a change of long-term strategy would be counterproductive to their jobs, then. If she’s thinking about their jobs at all right now, that is. 

“You’re the coolest. More than spectacular.” Warlock smiles at her, sheltered from the wind by her arms, and they make such a picture that any remaining thoughts about _jobs_ and _strategies_ melt away in Brother Francis’s mind.

“Wizard?”

“Smashing!”

“And keen.” Nanny smiles.

“I think I would rather like you to show me this film of yours, Warlock,” says Brother Francis, feeling a bit left out. “We could watch it together.”

Warlock’s eyes light up at this. Nanny’s lips twist in a grimace, but she doesn’t protest.

“Come on. We won’t be going anywhere if you catch a cold.”

Their walk back is a long one, longer than Brother Francis thought it would be. Have they really come so far? When did it happen? He feels better with Warlock’s small hand in his grip, listening to Nanny giving him some long-winded explanation about tidal cycles and holding the boy’s other hand, but even though the conversation is easy, he doesn’t feel settled.

By the time they reach their abandoned, unfinished picnic, it’s practically dusk. The uneaten food gets methodically packed into carton boxes and paper bags to be shared tomorrow, or a day after that, or a day after that. There’s a later now. There will be other times like this one, but the sense of urgency only tightens Brother Francis’s shoulders further. He can’t help but feel like the first time only happens once and he needs, wants to talk to Nanny before this day, right now, tips over into another memory—remembered, but never straightforwardly addressed. On their way back to the car, Warlock lets go of their hands and leans back on the wind, the force of which is almost enough to prop him up, and shouts to look at him. Brother Francis smiles, tucks Warlock’s collar tighter around his neck, and hesitates again. The time isn’t right, Warlock and what they’re working towards, this comes first. 

He sighs. He could do with a push, but he knows by now he won’t be pushed into anything when it comes to _this_.

When they finally get to the Bentley, Warlock stops and turns around, crossing his arms.

“You’re not lying, are you?” He leans on the black metal and sizes them up.

“What do you mean?” asks Nanny, taking the blanket from Brother Francis and putting it on the backseat along with the basket.

“You’re not just saying stuff to make me do what you want and then you’re going to forget about it? I’m not going in until you promise we will actually go on another trip. Tomorrow.”

“We’re not your parents, Warlock,” Nanny emerges from the inside of the car to catch his eye before walking around the Bentley to the driver’s side. “It’s a good thing.”

“So you promise?”

“Well, we’ll see about tomorrow, but one day, yes, certainly,” Brother Francis says.

“When?”

“Very soon.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Nanny and Brother Francis say at the same time. There’s a clank of the car door closing as Warlock gets inside.

And, all of a sudden—Nanny looks at Brother Francis briefly over the roof of the Bentley, her hair trashing about, and moves to open her own door—and there’s the moment. Such a small one: a pause between two doors opening and closing. It would be all too easy to let her slip down to sit behind the wheel and think she has forced something before its due time today, something that Brother Francis bravely endured for Warlock’s sake, as if it wasn’t the loveliest day he’s had in a while. He’s grown used to being understood without explaining himself, but perhaps some things need to be spelled out. 

“I rather enjoyed myself too, today,” he says in a rush. “I, um, the, the South Downs are lovely at this time of year.”

The corner of Nanny’s mouth lifts in wry amusement that looks a bit too close to self-depreciating, which Brother Francis doesn’t care for one bit. “The weather’s terrible.”

“Well, you made it rather lovely, then. With the cake, and, well. I appreciate your driving. And, anyway, I can’t wait to see the area on a better day, then. Maybe we could catch some sunlight. If you’re amenable.”

Nanny’s sunglassed stare is unreadable. She nods. “Yes, of course. It seems like Warlock really loved it today. We could go to a beach next time, I’m not sure he’s ever been to one.” She reaches down for the door handle–

“No—wait—Crowley?” It’s almost a whisper, but she looks up again.

There isn’t really a silence that could fall in the roar of the wind, but what follows certainly feels like one. Nothing has overtly changed about Nanny’s face as much as Brother Francis can see it in the low light, but he knows he has her full attention. And it may not be the right time to go down new roads, not yet, but maybe they could determine where they’re going.

“Will-will you have dinner with me? Not one day. If… as soon as it all goes right. At the Ritz, or, well, anywhere you’d like. We could go anywhere, you could drive, just– I’m ready if you are.” He’s rambling. He cuts himself off. Nanny is still staring at him.

“Why now?” she asks after a while.

Brother Francis purses his lips and, for the first time, feels slightly uncomfortable with his over-the-top guise. He hopes it doesn’t make him appear any less genuine. “It’s not like it hasn’t been a long time coming, is it. I-I just thought I should clear things up. I won’t have you apologize to me, my dear, it doesn’t suit you at all.”

“Yes,” Nanny says tightly, and then her jaw relaxes into something more loose. “...yeah. Okay. Sure—Aziraphale.”

She draws a deep breath, looks away. Sways a little. Brother Francis waits for her to look back at him and smiles when she does.

“Right. The Ritz is fine,” she says, then ducks to get inside the car. Brother Francis doesn’t stop smiling, and follows. He thinks he sees her wipe something from underneath her glasses.

The ride back is smooth. Warlock nods off in Brother Francis’s lap, lulled by the tap tap tap of the first drops of rain on the Bentley. If he heard anything of their conversation outside the car, he didn’t mention it. Either way, Brother Francis resolves to explain everything to him one day, when he’s older, after everything that’s coming. His face looks so peaceful, and Brother Francis hopes desperately that he and Nanny will do well by him. That they will be enough to raise a boy who feels loved—and maybe that, in itself, will be enough to stop the world from ending.

It’s cozy inside, with the rain punctuating the murmur of the engine, but Brother Francis has never been one for sleeping and wouldn’t want to miss one second of the present moment; he’d rather draw it out and out and out while it lasts. He looks over at Nanny. Her hands are steady on the wheel and he fancies he might take one of them into his own tonight, when he walks her and Warlock back to the house, just maybe. Nanny turns her head to glance at Warlock, then catches Brother Francis’s eye and smiles something small. She looks like she would drive through the fires of hell for the two of them and Brother Francis knows that if it ever comes to that, she will. It would just take a little bit of imagination.


End file.
